


What's Love Got to Do With it

by Spurlunk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1980s, Bank Robbery, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hostage Situations, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spurlunk/pseuds/Spurlunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier is in the middle of robbing a bank when things go south and he takes a hostage to get out of there alive. Only problem is, the hostage is the Black Widow, and she's not happy that this man ruined her mission to get a job as a bank teller and infiltrate it from the inside. Now that they're on the run from the police together, they notice that there's something familiar about each of them even though they know they've never met before...</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Love Got to Do With it

**Author's Note:**

> In my weird mishmash of canon from comics, the movies, and fic, this particular story takes place towards the very end of Natasha's career working for the Soviets. It is before Clint finds her and she starts to work for SHIELD, but after she lets things get too personal with the Winter Soldier and both of their memories are wiped by their bosses so that this doesn't happen again.

Natasha was very annoyed with the shoulder pads in her blazer. She wasn't supposed to let herself be irritated by things like that anymore, but she'd been sitting here for forty minutes and was beginning to grow impatient. She was here for a job interview, but it was a Saturday morning and the bank was very busy. Natasha's gray pantsuit had begun to stick to her in the summer heat outside, but the inside of the bank was cold and she had to put out an actual effort to keep from shivering.

The very second that the dark haired man walked in, she knew what was about to happen. Natasha joined the others to lie on the floor when the man pulled out a gun and ordered everyone down on the ground. If this was just a run of the mill bank robbery, she had to keep her cover.

It was unusual for a bank robber to work alone. Too easy for things to get out of hand. He didn't want any money - the conversation between him and the manager was too far away for her to hear, but he was gesturing towards the room with the safe deposit boxes. Natasha couldn't let that happen.

She stood up, ignoring the whispered warning from the woman lying next to her, and the man immediately turned his gun on her.

"Get down, now," he said, his voice cold and calculating. Natasha walked towards him, heels clicking against the floor. He fired the gun. It was close enough that he really couldn't miss, but Natasha moved fast enough that it just grazed her arm. She kept moving towards him, and for the first time he looked a little taken aback. Then there were lights coming in through the glass doors in the front, the familiar sound of police sirens joining the blue and red flashes. The bank robber took advantage of Natasha's brief distraction and grabbed her, pinning her arms to her sides and holding his gun against her back.

"Seriously?" she said, completely exasperated. Why did this have to happen today, now, to her?

"You're coming with me," he said, shoving her forward and gesturing for the manager to lead the way. Natasha could most likely overpower him in minutes, but she still wanted to keep her cover. He went for the safe deposit box she was here for. Then they heard the police come into the bank, and the robber shoved the manager out the door and slammed it shut behind him, locking it.

 

"What's your plan?" she asked the man, who had let her go. He ignored her and climbed up on a table, pushing up a ceiling panel to expose an air duct. He gestured with a gloved hand for her to go first. Natasha sighed and took off her heels and blazer, ignoring the faint ripping sound when the blood on her arm stuck to the fabric. He shook his long hair back and held out his hands to boost her up, but she ignored him and climbed on the table, taking a leap and pulling herself up with her upper body.

She crawled forward, not waiting for him to follow. She knew the way out, she had done her research. They didn't speak, and from the lack of noise coming from the man behind her, even as they moved through the metal ducts, she could tell he was no ordinary criminal. He might be someone like her.

Natasha stopped and moved a panel aside, dropping down into the bathroom. The man came after her, landing a little louder with his boots instead of her bare feet. He shoved open the stall door to expose a cowering bank teller. He shot her once clean in the head, and Natasha took her shoes, plain black flats. The bank robber pushed the body out of the way and climbed on the toilet, punching out the window, and then moved aside so Natasha could get out.

They landed in an alleyway, and of course there were police waiting. They began yelling and pointing guns, so the man pointed his own at Natasha's head, pulling her close so that no one could get a clear shot without hitting her.

"Back off or I'll kill her!" he yelled. There were a few moments before his words registered, and then the police began to move away. He gestured at the police officers nearest him, who were taking cover behind their cars.

"Move, move!" he said, and they did, though reluctantly. He shoved Natasha in the driver's seat and climbed in the front, keeping the gun trained on her the entire time.

"Get us out of here. Now," he said, and Natasha grinned. This, she could do.

 

One high speed car chase later, having ditched the police car, Natasha and the bank robber arrived at a rundown apartment building in a sketchy part of town. Faded graffiti and the stench of trash and stale urine greeted the two of them as they walked into the lobby. The gaunt junkie in the stairwell didn't give either of them a second glance, even though Natasha still had a gun jammed into her side and a bloody left arm. They stopped on the fifth floor and went into apartment 502.

As soon as the door shut behind them Natasha sprang into action. The element of surprise allowed her to disarm him quickly, the gun skittering across the floor and out of reach. However, he recovered quickly, and then they were locked in hand to hand combat.

Natasha had no memory of fighting someone so equally matched to her before. It wasn't that they had similar styles - their build and body type alone created differences - but they were in a sort of sync. Natasha couldn't remember ever seeing this man before, but her body seemed to know his, her muscle memory anticipating his every move. She knew to avoid his arm, but she wasn't sure why. When the sleeve of his jacket rose up to expose a glint of silver metal under his glove, she found her answer. She was not in fact equally matched, she realized, and started to move for the gun.

Her focus shifting from overpowering the man to reaching for the gun was enough of an opening for him to pin her down, holding her arms above her head as she lay on the hard ground.

"I know you," he said, but there was confusion in his eyes. His greasy dark hair hung down, brushing her face lightly enough it made her want to sneeze.

"I've never seen you before in my life," she said, but her voice too was tinged with uncertainty.

"You were younger, and it was cold," he went on, trying to remember. Natasha twisted her body, kicking free, and had the gun in her hands, leveling it at her attacker in less than a minute.

"We both want the same thing and I can't leave until I have it," she said. He stood up slowly.

"I can't give it to you," he replied.

"Well, then we're at an impasse."

Natasha lowered gun. The apartment was a studio, one big room with a rickety table, two chairs, and a mattress n the floor in one corner. She put the gun on the table, and sat down. He took off his jacket, draping it over the other chair and exposing a shiny metal arm with a red star on the shoulder. He took off his gloves and went to the kitchen sink, his back to her.

Natasha had a lot of practice in looking relaxed while remaining completely alert, and she could tell that the man wasn't doing that. He had fought her, he saw what she was capable of, yet he had turned his back on her. As she looked at the curve of his shoulders beneath the thin gray T-shirt, stuck to his skin with sweat, she had a flash of memory, of touching the smooth skin of his back, of raking her nails down and then later running her fingers over the raised pink scratches.

The man walked over and pulled a chair up to sit next to her with a wet washcloth in his hands. He used the non-metal one to clean the wound on her arm. The water was cool and refreshing, and the sting of pain brought her back to the here and now. Natasha carefully reached into the man's pocket and took out a small blue envelope. He noticed.

"We worked on the same side, once," he said calmly, bandaging her arm and getting up to go wash his hands.

"We were lovers," she replied, and once she said it she knew it was true. This man whose name she couldn't even remember made her feel calm, made her feel like in a sea of changing waters he would be her steady rock.

He came back and sat down, taking the envelope from her. She let him. He turned it around and around in his fingers, not looking at her. The noises of the city and neighbors came through the thin walls, the faint sound of a thumping hip hop beat seeming muffled under the weight of the silence in the room.

"This is not a coincidence," Natasha said, and he looked at her.

"The both of us after the same thing, we are in the bank on the same day, we remember each other," she said. He was waiting, but she had nothing more to say. The fact that she couldn't remember details, that she didn't know how or why this man was so familiar to her disturbed her. His demeanor had changed too, after they ought, so she knew he felt just as jarred by this.

Natasha heard loud, authoritative voices from the hallway, and they both sprang instantly to their feet. Natasha grabbed the gun and the man took the envelope. They didn't need to stop and talk, immediately making their way to the window and climbing onto the fire escape. The rusty metal burned her hands, but she went down four floors and dropped down to the alleyway at the bottom, the man right behind her.

Natasha went up to a dented car parked at the mouth of the alley and stepped back to allow the man to go and pick the lock to get in. He got it started, and she jumped in the front seat. Within the hour they were leaving the city far behind.

 

They left the car at a train station and caught a train back into the city. It was mostly empty, and they were able to get comfortable. The nearest person was five rows away; an acne scarred young person with a slightly drooping mohawk and metal chains in their pants.

"I don't remember my name," the man said, the rhythmic thrum of the train a backdrop to his words.

"Do you remember what happened to your arm?" Natasha asked. She had considered asking to borrow his jacket, but her bandaged arm was much less conspicuous than his silver metal one.

"I remember that it hurt," he said simply, but with a quirk of his mouth that let her know that was a massive understatement. She remembered that; what for him passed as a smile. She remembered a bare room, cold and empty , and herself still a girl, the hair on her arms standing up in the chill. It was a test, being placed in this room with a man she did not know. His movements were slightly jerky and just a little unnatural, and he wasn't wearing a shirt, exposing not just his metal arm but the angry red scars where it fused with his shoulder. His hair was shaggy but ended before obscuring his face, and she couldn't read his expression.

"Come at me," he said in badly accented Russian. Natasha was top of her class, and she went after him with everything she had. He knocked her down in moments, let her go, and his mouth quirked up on one side as she dusted herself off and tried again.

Natasha's reward, weeks later, was a series of injections for which she had to be strapped down, the fire burning through her veins so hot that she couldn't even hear herself scream.

"Pain is another thing we have in common," she said. They sat in silence for the rest of the trip, and soon they had arrived back in the city.

"We need a car," the man said, and pulled off his glove to expose his metal hand, ready to smash in a window. Natasha put her hand on his, lowering it.

"Let me," she said, and walked up to a young man who was just locking the door of his car. Five minutes later, he was handing over the keys and walking off, looking a little dazed. She got in the driver's seat and gestured for her partner to come and join her. He got in the other side, and she turned on the engine.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Since your place is compromised, we're going to mine," she said, and he didn't say anything. Silence was consent. Off they went.

Natasha lied. She didn't have a place. She had a location where she was supposed to meet her contact once she had completed her mission. Her mission, apparently coinciding with this man's mission, was the blue envelope currently in his pocket. She needed that envelope at that location, and if the man was coming along for the ride she could take care of him once they got there.

As they drove closer, and Natasha pulled up at the abandoned warehouse, the man sitting in the front seat next to her grew more and more tense.

"This is not where you've been staying," he said as she parked the car.

"What?" she said.

"This is where you will meet your handler."

"What?" was all she could say again. Natasha did not like being taken by surprise.

"This is where I am meeting my handler."

They got out of the car on opposite sides, and Natasha put her hand on the gun she had jammed in her pants, reassuring herself that it was still there.

"I have to complete my mission," Natasha said.

"I can't give you the envelope," he replied. Natasha reached for the gun, but he launched himself at her and she was too busy defending herself to go for it again. She couldn't fail, she needed that envelope. She knew what would happen if she failed, she had seen what they did to those who couldn't complete their missions - and she knew that the man she was fighting would not let that envelope go unless she hurt him so bad he wasn't able to stop her from taking it. As soon as Natasha had an opening, she pulled out the gun, and shot the man. She was aiming for his chest, but he anticipated her move and she missed by inches, hitting him in the chest. He fell back, blood beginning to spread under his shirt.

Natasha remembered working with him. She remembered being on a mission together. They were undercover, at a fancy party. She was wearing a green dress, cut low, with heels that brought her up to be the same height as her partner, dressed in an expensive tuxedo. They were laughing, drinking, but completely aware of their surroundings. Natasha wound her way through the crowd and started seducing their mark, an older man with a paunch and a very red face. Maybe he would die of a heart attack before her partner had a chance to finish the job.

That was not the case. Natasha got him upstairs to a hotel room, where she got him out of his jacket and moved him so that his back was against the window. She knelt down, undoing his belt and pulling down his pants, and then there was a single shot.

 

There was a terrible pain in Natasha's stomach. She looked down and saw red open like a flower under her white top. He was standing over her with the gun, he had taken it out of her hand when she was lost in her memories of their past together.

"James," she said, and he bent down close to her. She reached up and took the blue envelope out of his jacket pocket, staining it with her bloody fingerprints. He took it back, but she held on. He leaned over and kissed her forehead.

"Sorry, Natalia," he said, and then everything went hazy. There was commotion, voices, Natasha felt herself being lifted, taken from one place to another, and then she felt the movement of a vehicle rumbling underneath. She was undressed, bandaged- there was a man, talking. 

_failed in her mission - memory protocol may be damaged - didn't recognize - the Winter Soldier -_

Everything went black and Natasha knew no more.

 

"Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists, the ones who do call him the Winter Soldier. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years." Natasha told Steve. She left out the part about how she had been his partner for more than just a few of them.

"So he's a ghost story," Steve said. Natasha's memories of him were sometimes vivid and sometimes just like ghost stories. Steve was exactly right despite not knowing her background with the Winter Soldier. He was oddly prescient that way sometimes. When she began working for SHIELD, they told her that her memories had been tinkered with, played with and rearranged.

Sometimes she remembered being with James, being - in love, or what passed for it when both of them were working as spies and assassins for the Soviet government. Sometimes she remembered fighting against him instead of with him. She remembered trying to get him out one time, but he hadn't even recognized her when she tried to get him to remember. They had done worse things to him than they had to her, that was apparent from his arm. Natasha pitied the Winter Soldier.

"Five years ago I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran, somebody shot at my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out, but the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer, so he shot him straight through me." Natasha said, pulling up her shirt to reveal the old scar on her stomach. The scar was more than five years old. There was no engineer in Iran. Natasha could feel James' lips on her forehead if she closed her eyes, but she didn't.

"A Soviet slag, no rifling. Bye-bye bikinis."

"Yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now." Steve said, and Natasha smiled a little, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Going after him is a dead end. I know, I've tried," she said, holding up the flash drive, "like you said, he's a ghost story."

Steve took the flash drive from Natasha, and she blinked twice, clearing her head. There was a time and place, and this wasn't it. She needed all of her wits about her.

"Well, let's find out what the ghost wants."

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, this was originally going up chapter by chapter but it ended up being so short I just combined the whole thing into one!


End file.
